after the capture comes this watershed ‘though there are no fluid feelings or sylvan streams just a slither of liquefaction in red rage on hard rock where riddles run in rills between the feet of a Sphinx apparitions vex the mind that made them…

As certainties slip from the grasp cloudland lifts its top and cuckoos flee across contours, through half-closed lids the eyes compose deft as any painter of landscapes green wash of watercolour pencilling where craggy heights give way to forest darker furze slip slide into…